Smudged Ink and Bend Sinister
by Blue-Inked Frost
Summary: Becky Sawyer, Veronica's daughter, is having a difficult time. Two girls named Ashley rule her school, she's met an unusually good looking drug dealer, and her mother's investigating a crime. While Veronica pries into links between Mayor Duke-Jolly and a corrupt construction company, the mystery turns deadly - and Becky's father is much closer to it than he wants her to know.
1. Sherwood, Ohio

_Note:_ Based on the Heathers 2010 pilot script, 'What's Your Damage', by Mark Rizzo. Thanks to LateToTheParty for the beta!

—

Letters, often smudged with messy ink and dirty hands, flew between post offices, between states, irregular yet regular and frequent in their irregularity.

—

_Dear Dad,_

_I got busted for drugs. Ritalin, specifically. Got on it back in Boston when I couldn't pass a Bio test without it._

_Now, as you know, I didn't need to do the father-daughter confiding thing, but I did. Points for honesty and let's take a sharp turn _away_ from Sternly Worded Parental Lecture Road?_

_Believe me, I travelled that route with Mom. _Extensively.

_Regretfully,  
__Becky._

—

_Darling,_

_You're an idiot._

_Dad._

—

_Dear Vague Paternal Figure,_

_Just to clarify, did you mean that in the 'getting caught' sense or the 'doing it in the first place' sense?_

_Call me a Spartan, but I think Option Mono is what most folks care about. Mom _loved_ my chemical-assisted As._

_How are the kids' birthday parties going?_

_Hugs,  
__Becky._

_—_

_Honey,_

_Hate to psychoanalyze, but both questions sound like you know you shouldn't have done it in the first place._

_You'll be fine the first time you do drugs. You'll be fine the first five times you do drugs. It won't make you instantly morph into a cautionary slide reeking with blood and guts on an overhead projector in an overheated classroom on Friday afternoon. Do it fifty times, and it just might._

_So watch yourself. Ask me about my Nicorette patch. I dare you._

_And don't knock the stage-magic gigs. Women like a guy who can pull a boiled egg out of nowhere. Ask your mother._

_Don't worry for the As. No one will remember what you did in high school. Unless you pull something _really_ explosive. That's not a suggestion to try._

_Stay out of prison,  
__Dad._

_P.S. Is that a Sherwood, Ohio postmark I see before me? Quaint little town. Feel free to share gory details._

—

_My Dear And Highly Respectable Father,_

_I write this letter in the darling little attic room that was once my beloved mother's, perched by my heirloom desk with punctuation marks in place of knobs. I overlook a green croquet field. One so delights in the countryside of our great nation. You ask for quaint, you get quaint._

_Freedom or death shall be my watchword. I think the population of cows exceeds the population of people. Two Ash-holes run the school. Yes, they're both called Ashley. Have you ever heard anything so weird? God knows what their moms were thinking._ _Ashley the First, who shall be known as ADJ, got me out of the big house by swapping favors with her mommy dearest, the corrupt town mayor, Heather Duke-Jolly, she whose hyphen is not optional. ADJ's desires are to be valedictorian, go to Harvard, be President one day, and I get to choose to be with her or be crushed below her patent-leather Mary Janes. Ashley #2 is the absurdly gothic, publicly promiscuous child of the severely brain-damaged Coach McNamara; it's pretty possible that she propositioned me for a threesome this one time._

_Speaking of, I saw this hottie who looked kinda like you-twenty-years-ago in the old school yearbook. Mom has a type or what?_

_I hope this satisfies your sudden and not at all suspicious need for gossip about Sherwood, Ohio. _

_Mom is grounding me forever. Come make a road trip, break me out of chokey? New York, New York, how I'd love New York._

_Yours penitently and not at all desperately,  
__Becky._

—

_Wayward Offspring Who Strays From The Beaten Path,_

_Your mother is the custodial disciplinary parent. Thus, I don't intervene._

_Many moons ago, she and I came to a careful, amiable separation agreement like mature adults. It involves keeping thousands of miles of space between us. It is a dewy, delicate, spider-web-like balance that we dare not disturb._

_Or, in short: She scares me, and you should show her more respect, you little scamp._

_Love,  
__Dad._

_P.S. Strongly suggest you steer sharply clear of corrupt mayor and bizarrely named offspring. Let the trained journalist handle it, she knows what she's doing. __I hope._

—

Becky Sawyer sighed as she opened the thin letter. She'd expected as much. No chance of seeing Dad for ages. Her father was usually to be found in New York, getting letters through a post office box in place of a regular apartment. One of his more publicly acceptable skills was stage magic - nightclub gigs, the odd bar mitzvah or children's birthday party. For a guy with nine fingers, he could really make sleight of hand work.

Her mother never asked her about her letters, though Becky knew she knew. The things Becky had from her father she could count on one hand. Childhood memories of piggyback rides up and down the riverside at night, streetlights in her eyes. Her first pair of sleeper earrings and a hand to hold while the needle went in. Uneven, rebellious eyebrows, set in a face otherwise her mother's, that made her look untrustworthy at every angle. And a huge bunch of scrawled notes kept in an old floral lunch box, written on anything and everything from nightclub napkins to fancy hotel embossed paper.

Becky flopped back on her bed and stretched. Ugly faded wallpaper, once blue, spread around her. The room had been furnished to her mother's taste, a long time ago. She utterly regretted that they'd inherited the house from Grandma and Grandad. She was trapped in ol' Sherwood, Ohio for the next it-might-as-well-be-forever. Grounded at home, and fighting a one-woman war at school against the Ash-holes while her mom made nice to their creepy moms for the sake of writing a damn Vanity Fair article. Screw being drafted into Ashley D.J.'s preppy pastel-colored horror show or Ashley McNamara's faux-gothy scene of being publicly kinky to get maximum attention.

Screw Mom and all her stupid secrets.

—

_Note:_ Although the Heathers 2010 script strongly hints that Becky doesn't know who her father is, it doesn't actually confirm that theory. So I went this route instead.


	2. Becky Happens Upon a Hollow Book

_Hi Dad,_

_You know, I never found out what split you and Mom up, though I always got the impression it was something of the magnitude of 'cheated on her with three goats and a small chihuahua'._

_Am I old enough to hear the gory details now?_

_(Also something I might be able to emotionally hold against her please)_

_Love,  
__Becky._

_—_

_Dear Becky,_

_Hid the gory secret from you for years, but you grew old enough to guess it. Am marrying one of the goats in a civil ceremony next week. Say 'bleat' for stepmother!_

_Cheer up, kid. Your grounding will be more finite than you believe. Read books, keep off the study aids, and don't let the popular girls or any other bastards grind you down._

_Chin up,  
__Dad._

—

Becky smiled despite herself. This was an old pattern: she'd suggest some outlandish theory why they broke up, her dad always agreed and ran with it, her mother clammed up like an oyster, and Becky was none the wiser. The truth became a running joke.

Her eyes slipped to the red heart-shaped box of study aids on her desk. Her dad was uncanny sometimes - good at guessing, great at cold reading people, frustrating to lie to - but he couldn't have guessed at these. They were a present-with-strings-attached from Ashley Duke-Jolly. Adderall. Taste the difference, she'd said. Maybe that was the secret source of all ADJ's A-double-plusses.

_Not today_, Becky thought. She slipped them under a notebook.

—

_Antediluvian Patriarch,_

_I've met a local celebrity up close and personal, as the Pastor of the Church of the Holy Prophet (named after himself, one guesses) became my personal spiritual advisor. _

_Ten minutes later, I broke the window._

_You'd say I did the right and proper thing, circumstances considering._

_At least I expanded my bookcase selection out of the deal._

_Irreligiously,  
__Child of Satan._

—

When you were summoned to the principal's office and the last time you were summoned you starred in a drug bust, you were apt to get bird-eating tarantulas in your stomach - even if in your past schools you'd mostly been sent to the principal's office to get awards.

It was difficult to get in trouble when your only friend was a now long-dead Tamagotchi. New schools came almost as fast as new semesters; Becky was normally the hermit crab, studying her ass off in her own private shell. Sherwood was different.

On paper, she might not have done anything wrong due to the town mayor's pink finger on the scales. Off paper - she found herself ordered into counseling.

It was a small room that looked like a refurbished sports closet. She'd noticed a plaque with a grandiose name: The Ram Sweeney Memorial Centre for Neurological Injuries and Psychological Help. One desk, one chair, one never-designed-to-open window.

Becky studied the man she'd just met. He was in his early fifties, glowing pink bald spot with a few mouse-coloured strands stretched over it, red cheeks and sunken wrinkles. She'd been told he was the pastor of the Church of the Holy Prophet. The big black and gold Bible he carried sure went with the look.

"Religion in schools?" she murmured in a quiet protest. Whenever she had to put anything down on a form, she usually plumped for lapsed-Catholic-without-the-guilt-complexes.

"I'm a licensed counselor. No proselytising, I promise," he said. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me about why you're here?"

"Name, birth date, do I get an attorney or just say I want to take the Fifth?" Becky said.

A _We-are-not-amused_ expression. "Anything you say is completely confidential. Think of me as off the chain and chillax."

When they started attempting ancient-history slang, you knew you were done for. Becky managed a few sentences about Spanish class reading, nothing personal.

He asked more questions; the old draw-them-out technique. When did you come here? With your mother? And your father is ... ? Oh, I see. Does she work for the local paper? Long hours? She's an old friend of the mayor's? Fancy that; the mayor and her family are in my congregation. Does your mom plan to stay long?

Then his phone beeped. Becky thought she saw the pastor's lips frame a word that a holy man shouldn't say. He excused himself, slamming the door behind him. Becky pulled out her math and worked half-heartedly at the problem set.

That was when the fire alarm went off.

She went for the door handle. Locked. Who the hell designed a school with doors that locked from the outside? She thumped on it, called idly. If she particularly wanted to get out, she knew she'd have no trouble.

"Hey there! Prisoner in the next cell!" She turned to the window. Ashley McNamara tapped on the glass, looking unnaturally friendly below bat-winged eyeliner. "School's on fire, surely you don't want to be crispy fried Becky?"

_Like hell - it's a drill_, Becky knew it as well as McNamara did. "Door's locked. Send in some cute fireman, will you?"

"Better idea." Ashley rapped on the glass with her knuckles. "Free yourself. How many times do you get the chance for consequence-free vandalism?"

Then it was McNamara who threw the first stone. Becky jumped back as it cracked the glass. Girl had a wrist like Randy Johnson. So Becky went for the heavy Bible on the desk.

_Not so heavy_, Becky noticed, startled. It wasn't a real Bible at all: a hollow box with gold decoration on the back. She opened it, looked, but the inside was completely empty. Fake pastor with a fake book. Probably wanted something that looked impressive for the sheep. She tucked it in her bag on the grounds he'd be too embarrassed to ask for it back, and joined Ashley McNamara's stone-throwing with a copy of Shakespeare's history plays.

—

Of course it never was a real fire. Josh Hawkins - forgettable face, letter jacket, once poured beer for Becky at a party, fortunate not to be named Ashley the Third - had burned a slice of toast.

Veronica lit up in the car. Becky grimaced at the clouds of smoke around them. "Dammit, Becky, petty vandalism now?"

"The junior fire warden said I should."

"Junior fire warden my - I'd say young Ashley framed you, but it seems you jumped with both feet right into that one," Veronica said. "It's like I'm staring at your silhouette printed in concrete with your name scrawled right next to it. Like you made those tiny marks in fresh plaster at your Baltimore kindergarten. Adorable, until the invoice came in."

"First, they forced me to see a pastor, he wasn't even supposed to be in a school," Becky said. "Second, who locks someone in a room like a prisoner during a fire alarm? Third, he's a fake pastor - "

Her mom bit into her cigarette; dark red already stained the end of it. "We respect people we disagree with," she said through her teeth, "and we do not break windows. Earth to Becky - you think I'm made of window-fixing cheques? We are beyond broke."

"Sell the fucking house and move out," Becky said. It wasn't like her mom didn't hate Sherwood too. Probably the only thing Veronica didn't hate about Sherwood was her editor boss Tom, and that was just because she was fucking him. Becky was done with her shit.

"We will, but later - " Veronica protested.

"You could get Tom to pay you overtime. Or are you the one that pays him to screw?"

"That's absurdly inappropriate."

"You only say that when I tell the truth," Becky said. "What they did to me was wrong and you know it. Dad would've been proud of me."

That was a conversation-ender. Veronica stubbed out her cigarette in the holder, waited a beat before she spoke. "There will be a cheque for half the window and a sternly worded letter to the school board about fire safety. I doubt the place has been updated since my day."

"Yeah, you should smell the gym," Becky said, wriggling down in her seat to let off some of the tension. "Some of those odors probably date to _your_ mom."

—

_Blessed Progeny,_

_You can take this Holy Profit with a grain of salt or three, but there's nothing more American than starting your own tax-free organization to shake down as many sheep as possible. You can capture rubber snakes and fake wheelchairs on candid camera and half the flock still won't lose their faith._

_Not that I've seen any such things, of course._

_Although I trust your judgment in selecting suitable break-ins and break-outs, I hope you remembered to put a heavy jacket over the window's edges before climbing out. Glass cuts aren't a joking matter. Putting cloth over glass before you break it helps muffle the sound, too._

_All flippancy aside, keep standing up for yourself._

_Three Hail Marys and a Pater Noster,  
__Dad._

—

Becky would've told her mom about the petty theft if she'd only let her speak, she told herself. _Too bad, Mom. No secrets._ She opened the Bible hiding place. She slipped the red box of pills in there, no touching it, no need to try it. She'd only hold on to them just in case. She didn't really need them. Maybe she could use them if she ever had to turn ADJ in. She put the bible at the bottom of the shelf, between a dull geography textbook and an even duller geometry.

She and her mom still went to Easter or Christmas mass, now and again. Becky had one memory of shining stained glass windows turning the apse to gold and peacock-blue with a soaring hymn wrapping around the three of them, a child with two hands clasped in both parents' hold. She wondered again what he'd done to prompt Veronica to split - no matter what it had been, he was the only father she'd ever get. Mercy and forgiveness and all that.

"Let's lay religion aside," Becky said.

Too bad the universe had a sense of irony.


	3. Always Get Some Fun out of Funerals

She'd thought she'd never have to see the Church of the Holy Prophet in person, but the white lilies Becky was staring at could've covered half of Delaware by square inch. She waited for the funeral to be over, discreetly kicking her legs up and down against the prickly bench. Holy Roller types never did understand good seating; they didn't have enough practice. If Becky was lucky, they'd get out of here before anyone started speaking tongues, rolling around the floor, or French-kissing snakes.

The pastor of the Church of the Holy Prophet lifted his arms to the skies and cried for Jesus Christ to throw the unbelievers in the lake of fire. His three double chins trembled. Becky screwed herself deep into her seat and prayed to a maybe nonexistent God he'd not notice her. Her mother leant forward, strain stiff in her upper arms and her back, her chin and mouth set in a combination that meant _I'm on to something but also upset about something._

Not Becky's circus, not Becky's monkeys. Okay, she wasn't completely heartless. Ashley Duke-Jolly's father killed himself; found dangling from a Sherwood road sign. Even one of the two bitchiest girls in Sherwood would feel sad about that.

Becky had met Bill Duke-Jolly once. They shared the same drug dealer. It was a special bond. Mr. Duke-Jolly threatened to make things very bad for Becky if she told what she saw.

Becky's glance fell on her drug dealer, thinking of him. Sid Finn-Clemens was a handsome clean-cut baby-faced all-American teenager in a hip half-fro, sitting between his mom and dad and rocking a particularly nice suit. She couldn't decide whether Sid the Squid was her friend or just a flint-hearted business kid trying to make it big. At least he was hot.

The two Ashleys weren't doing anything so relatable as crying on each other's shoulders (and destroying their makeup in the process), but they sat together at the front, McNamara's upper arm pressed against ADJ's. Becky played the game of spot-the-people-she-knew-who-weren't-named-Ashley. It was a short list. She recognized the girl she thought of as Corset Girl, Ingrid, a shy kid despite the glittering rhinestones on her sparkling black Victorian-underwear-of-the-day. Today she'd left off the sparkle for a makeup-bare face and sad expression. A few benches down, she knew Reed Dauphin, too. Unfortunately. Becky forced herself not to drop her freezing glance at the Westerburg junior. It was Reed who deserved to be ashamed of what he'd done, not her, and she hoped he still had the bruises. She noticed Firebug Josh, next, who seemed a friendly enough face. Seemed most of Westerburg High, especially the popular kids, were aficionados of the Holy Profit - weird.

Becky shook the stiffness out of her legs when it was finally over. She thought of talking to Sid, but lost him in the press of people. The widow wore elegant jet black couture with expensive wraparound sunglasses, hiding tears or the absence of them. Becky was startled to glimpse ADJ's face, where she stood waiting on the steps: cheeks pale ice, eyes smouldering, lips set in a line so thin you couldn't see them. ADJ's right hand clenched lacquered dark purple fingernails. Becky had never seen a look of such concentrated hatred before. She tracked the direction of that stare. Either from grief or high stilettos, the widow walked unsteadily, and an old man took her elbow. He was tall and grey-haired, leanly muscular, with a suit that didn't quite fit him. Becky supposed he was sort of silver-foxy, if you liked grandfather-age guys. It was probably something to do with his intense stare. ADJ's actual grandfather? Somehow she didn't think so. Heather Duke-Jolly used her escort for long enough to get off the steps, then he peeled off into a gaudy car decorated with some construction company logo.

Becky looked back, and was startled to see her mom watching exactly the same byplay with the same interest. _Background color for her story? Druggie husband kills himself, tragic widow in a black hat with veiling that makes her look like the Mafia widow that ordered his execution - talk about your Technicolor Lifetime movies ..._

Sid came toward her, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He took Becky's elbow. "Ms. Sawyer. My folks sent me to ask - would you like us to take Becky home? Mom knows you and Mrs. Duke-Jolly used to be close."

Becky's mom smiled. She thoroughly approved of Sid. She only knew his apple-pie-baking mom and nerdy dad, and thought his worst vice was a Coke habit rather than dealing in the other kind. "Thanks," she said. "Becky's grounded, but I'll ease off the prison manacles for today. Off you kids go."

"You on for the Snappy Snack Shack?" Sid asked, leading her in the opposite direction to his family. "Let's get slushies - my treat."

—

_Dear Dad,_

_Happy Teen Suicide Prevention Day from Sherwood, Ohio._

_Apparently it's a big thing here, second only to Cows Giving Birth Week._

_We got the mayor herself, Heather Duke-Jolly, come and talk to us about how bad it is to kill yourself in a sugar-sweet tone as if no one knew her husband committed suicide last week. Did he off himself because he was married to her or because he found out that his kid is such a royal Ash-hole? Unnecessarily bitchy, I know, but apparently all HDJ's best friends killed themselves when she was in high school. Common denominator much?_

_Mom and I went to Duke-Jolly's husband's funeral, of course. Couldn't get out of it. Church of Holy Rollers; you'd have adored the multitudinous opportunities for silent snickering. Afterwards Mom let me out on parole in view of tragic circumstances, so I indulged at Sherwood's variant of the Snappy Snack Shack with a cute guy, Sid Finn-Clemens. They're cuter the more untrustworthy they are, right? Don't expect me to bring him to you for approval, though, as I'm worried you'd actually like him. One can't have one's parents approve of disreputable dates; it takes away all the fun. 'Just friends' is the safest option - for now._

_Back to chastely doing homework!_

_Becky._

—

_Kid,_

_New post office box, address below. Write again soon._

_Dad._

—

Becky had walked out of the assembly with ADJ - keen to get away regardless of the company, keeping her face still and expressionless as she headed down the stairs.

"My mother would never let her tragic personal experiences make her give up on the chance to make a difference for others," ADJ said. "I'm proud of her for carrying on. She's experienced at surviving a suicide or four, ever since high school."

"Okay - you can explain that one if you want," Becky said, presuming Miss Know-It-All Teen 2010 was going to anyway.

"You mean you don't _know_? Your mother was there too, back in the dark-age eighties in Westerburg. How virile. My mother's best friend killed herself because she couldn't cope with the pressure of being beautiful and popular. Then my mother's other best friends, two gay guys, killed themselves as a protest against an uncaring world. Of course, thanks to political demographics, Mom's official position is they ought to have found Jesus instead of each other's prostate."

"_Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose_," Becky said. Nothing ever changes.

"_Il vaut mieux être marteau qu'un clou. Un clou chasse l'autre_," ADJ capped the proverb triumphantly. It was better to be a hammer than a nail; it sure seemed ADJ had hammered the books for any number of Latin-derived languages. Not for the first time, Becky reflected that conversation with the preppy Ashley was akin to alligator wrestling: a blood sport, where only one could triumph and it most likely wouldn't be you.

"The last teenage suicide was this sweet, shy guy who had a crush on my mom. He never confessed to her, but she could tell. His ex-girlfriend was a real piece of work, so she supposed he lost his confidence. Then he blew himself up on the stairs outside the school. Look." ADJ pointed to an ambiguous streak of black on the stairs. "That's his scorch mark." She said it like it was supposed to be a deeply impressive school legend.

It seemed to Becky like the mark could've been made by anything, even a dodgy pair of sneakers, but she didn't say it.

"Who was that construction guy?" she asked ADJ. "The one in the half-assed suit, out on the stairs."

Suddenly any pretence from ADJ of a friendly chat vanished. Her inner great white shark with a particularly jaded attitude to the world thrashed itself up to break the surface of the waves. "Shut up, kiddie pool, and don't presume on my patience or my time. If you think it's bring-your-fucking-daughter-to-work-day for your mom so you can ask tabloid questions about mine, it's time you took a copy of the National Enquirer, ripped it to shreds, and shoved it up at least three of your orifices. If I'm being nice, I'll let you pick which three."

—

_Dear Dad,_

_Suicide, like lightning, does in fact strike twice in the same place, especially if you own a lightning rod._

_Is Westerburg High, Sherwood, a lightning rod?_

_A junior named Reed Dauphin is dead. He took Swiss sleeping pills from the internet and slit his wrists in the bathtub._

_Reed was an absolute asshole who attempted date rape and smeared me on Twitter afterward. I regret I didn't punch him harder at the time, not knowing that so soon the opportunity would be lost forever._

_I'm not sorry he's dead. Does that make me a bitch? Do I even care whether I'm a bitch or not?_

_Something doesn't add up. First ADJ's father, now Reed. Assholes don't kill themselves so easily. They're not normally so kind to other people._

_The Ashleys aren't so cut up about Reed either, despite Fishnets Ashley sucking face with him in the hall on a regular basis. Can't blame her for cutting him loose. She and ADJ are circling the wagons, sticking together at school and taking less time to order around their flying monkey crews._

_Something's going on._

_Here's to teen angst bullshit everywhere,  
__Becky._

—

_Dear Dad,_

_Sorry, sent last letter to the old address. You have the worst timing._

_Did I ever tell you about Mom's boss? His name is Tom Thatcher. Thomas. Tom, Tom, the piper's son. Tam Lin. Thomas the Rhymer. Old Tom. Tommy. Tomcat._

_He runs the town newspaper. Mom's side of politics; tried to unseat HDJ last election, but taught us all the moral lesson that idealism never wins against the power of cold hard cash._

_Tom is clean living, hard working, went to good schools, and is extraordinarily good looking for a man of his (Mom's) age._

_He's perfect. He's up to something. That something includes seducing Mom._

_Intrigued? Ever consider visiting Sherwood, Ohio? It's not that far from where you are now._

_Cheers,  
__Becky._


End file.
